MOOMINS M.C.

Firstly I must thank everyone who helped me during my stay in hospital and to all those who have been reading my some times self centred rantings about mad ward mates and the general goings on in the hospitals.


Six and half months into my rehab. and I think I may have finally cracked.


Being at home was never going to be easy, I knew that from the start.
I’d heard the many horror stories from ones released.
It took a whole hour for me to get out of bed, shower and get dressed, quite normal I’m told.

Saturday was grand final day here in Melbourne and my housemates had taken off to bbq’s and what not to engage in the downing of copious volumes of beer and the spurring on of one of the two teams involved.
I had opted to stay at home, get a decent sleep in ( it’s nigh on impossible to get a decent night’s sleep in hospital ) and have a crack at the showering caper.
After taking my self out to the back yard to lie down on the, I for some inexplicable reason started to get a feeling of immense sorrow.
I got a slight touch of it on the Friday when I came home and didn’t think much of it.
On Saturday this feeling returned with a vengeance.
I somehow felt that everything was so distant, so unattainable, so bloody futile.
The reason for this remained unattainable to me as well.
The poster in the loo of the Tassie wilderness didn’t look beautiful anymore, it looked down right foreboding and dangerous.
The book “For The Term Of His Natural Life” ( a convict who’s is wrongly accused of murder is sent to the penal colonies on Tasmania ) came to mind and struggled to imagine how someone with a fractured pelvis, let alone all my other injuries, would’ve coped or been treated.
Would they have cracked at this point as well or later?
I guess I was attempting to cheer myself up by comparing how easy I have it at the moment as opposed to those poor wretches living there or being imprisoned on that Island.
It didn’t work.
It just depressed me even further.

The neighbours, whom I had not met before, popped in to invite the household over for the footy bbq.
After all the usual what happened to you questions and answers they told me of their three motorcycling mates, one broke a femur, one broke his back and is a paraplegic and the other one who was killed.
It still didn’t make me feel any better.

Mum came around at one point and we had a cup of tea, rounded up the two chooks into their pen and she later gave me lift to Watkins St to the bbq.
By this stage the footy had finished and only the half / incompletely drunk conversations whirred around me.
I couldn't tap into the cheery mood that was surrounding me at all.
I couldn't tap into the normal social engagement.
Totally isolated.
I felt myself sliding deeper and deeper, not even the presence of my good mates and their normally hilarious opinions and bullshit could make a difference.
I finally reached a point where I had to take leave in the toilet and have myself a good old fashioned cry.
You know the snotty nosed variety and all the trimmings.
I had experienced that kind of sorrow before, usually when a close one had died, when my first girlfriend dumped me, etc.
This time there seemed no particular reason, but it was just there, as was the feeling of being utterly useless and insignificance in my current state of disrepair.

I just wish that the powers that be, would operate on the damn thing and leave me to my 8 or 10 weeks of walking around on one leg so that I may once again resume my bipedal rehabilitation.

I know I am extremely lucky to be in this state and that I may not have had the use of these hands with which to write this.
Or I could have been paralysed from the waist down and been able to write this after all.
I could have lost an arm or a leg, or both.
This all doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

And you thought it was all fun stories and hospital anecdotes eh?

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